


Pieces of the Puzzle

by buvbly



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drug Dealing, GAVIN HAS A BULLDOG, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, like two idiots dancing around gasoline with a match
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-13 06:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buvbly/pseuds/buvbly
Summary: Detective Gavin Reed plays an imperfect game.A player in a game in which he doesn’t know the other half of the board, and the clock’s ticking with each wrong step he takes.Detective Gavin Reed definitely does not have time for anything else, especially not for the android that keeps looking at him from across the desk.





	1. Dead End Alley (With assholes)

**Author's Note:**

> okay!!! so this may not be my first work in this fandom, but this is genuinely my first attempt at making a story with plot(?) and shit. hopefully i don't disappoint!! 
> 
> warning for the first scene: sexual assault and all that unpleasant jazz

Faces crowd too close to hers with heat that turns sticky, shared between skin that is both organic and artificial. Their crooked teeth and smiles are wicked, crazed eyes filled with a hunger that’s far too familiar. 

“Look at that, boys,” the man to her left slurs. He arches a brow that warps the snaking tattoo that's pierced the side of his face. “A lost lil’ kitty.” 

A collective cackle erupts from the trio. It grates harshly against her ears as it reverberates against the claustrophobic walls.

Her eyes seem to look everywhere and nowhere at once, not knowing how to handle the way their unpleasant breaths left moisture on her cheeks. Thick, heavy air stuffs its way down into her throat, choking her despite lacking the need for oxygen. It makes its way down, deeper, twisting a bundle of nerves at her chest that sets her skin aflame.

Something amidst the casts of shadows catches a beam of light, and she chooses to ground herself in the shine; to give herself time, even if it was quickly slipping through her fingers like sand. The beat of her heart skips and jumps when she notices it’s a silver bat, held loosely in one of their hands. 

There’s a chuckle to her right. And without a moment to pass, a hand, meaty and sweaty, grabs onto both her wrists; the other holding her mouth closed. Nothing but muffled attempts at screams and short-lived wiggling escapes the capturer’s fingers. Their grins mirror the Cheshire's, and she wants nothing more than hide from it. 

“How cute,” one of them coos. She is pulled back until her spine is pressed into a heaving chest. 

The first man steps closer, and she tries to focus on the tattoo instead of the way his eyes invade privacy and the way his fingers heavily trail up her waist. They slowly drag up to the point of her chin, holding her face still and causing her skin to glitch in the bruising hold. He forces her to look at him. From this close, she can see the way his eyes glint with unwanted recognition. 

“Ain’t this the chick from that downtown club?” His voice comes out raspy like he’d puffed five too many cigars. 

Against three, the girl— petite and lightweight— lost before the struggle had even begun. She never knew that sadism could be so cruel, especially outside the bedroom. 

She’d broken free from her mind that used to lock that face-numbing smile on her lips as she begged for _more and more_ when all that screeched in her head was for it all to _stop_. And now, there was nothing holding back the screams that rip out from her throat as every raw sensation was amplified. The waves of harsh grabbing, the slide of calloused skin on hers, and the dirty, crude humiliation was drowning in _agony_. 

Everything she felt before couldn't compare; it had all been light— _vanilla_— she realized. It made her wish that she hadn’t complained about the past, lest she jinxed what fate would bring her.

The tight hold in her hair sends pricks of discomfort down her spine. She fears for herself as she feels fingers, palms, _hands_ crawling under her layers of clothing. They feel like bugs, cockroaches, and centipedes alike with slick legs finding shelter on every inch of skin. One slips down the lines of her collarbone, a finger snagging onto the trim of her dress. She locks her eyes with the tattooed man— a beg almost tipping off her tongue— before he sharply brings his hand down, ripping through the thin fabric. 

She’d bought that dress herself. It wasn’t the sets that came with her packaging; a petty thong and crop, made for a doll to be toyed and jerked around with. She closes her eyes before the tears fall and tries to ignore the soft material soaking up the wet ground. But she sees herself back in those neon-lit rooms, outlines of things she’d rather forget imprinted to the back of her eyelids. 

Trying to blink it away just makes the memories burn more behind her eyes. She keeps blinking, willing the image away, but it stays seared in her mind. The way their hands and snickering confuses her sensors, the grips on her wrists bruising as a finger slithers down to the hem of her final layer. It’s all too recent, all too familiar—

She doesn’t want to go back there. She wants the touches to go away. She wants to be free— to rid of the people that made her feel small. 

She _wants._

Aggressive, hard, and unforgiving; she translates what she’d learned in the bedroom into something she can use. She fights against the clammy hands that cusp her curves and the fingers that digs into her skin. She frees her mouth from silence and bares her canines. 

It sinks into meaty flesh, but she won’t stop until her rows of teeth meet in the middle. The blood, a shiny crimson, ruptures from the broken skin and floods down her throat. She doesn’t stop. 

Teeth meets bones. _She doesn’t stop. _

The ringing in her ears slowly fades into a screech that comes from behind her. Her wrists are freed and her back is no longer pressed against a soft abdomen and hard crotch. She spits the chunk out, licks the dark red from her teeth clean. 

A fist collides with her jaw. “You fuckers never learned how to _fucking_ listen.” An elbow crushes the plates of her throat. “I’ll teach you to for once.” Blood seeps into her stinging eyes, and she notices too late the bat coming down on her. 

The android falls back against the cold, hard floor with a harsh clang. A piece of plastic follows her down, and she realizes a second later that _it’s from her head_. For a moment, it all seems to slow as she reaches for the back of her skull.

Fingers touch slick wires, wires touch shaking fingers.

Her voice comes out as static when her broken voice screams into the void. She doesn’t need any flashing warnings to know that she’s thoroughly fucked. 

The handle of the bat is shoved through her gaping lips, rough rubber sliding against the inside of her cheeks. It’s snapped down and her jaw cracks out of place. It doesn’t stop her voice from bouncing the walls. 

She gets straddled, feeling another hardness seeping wet through harsh fabric. 

“Shut the fuck up bitch,” One of them sneers, raising the metal bat up and over his head in preparation. “Or I’ll bash the rest of your pretty face off.” 

She sees an opening of three seconds. Would she make it out of here breathing? 

He brings it down, making the air around them sing as it slices through. Her eyes cross as she watches the bat come close. At the last second, she twists under his thighs before it touches her nose. It throws the man off her and onto his back. 

The bat clanks against the floor and rolls away. 

She pushes off the ground with any strength she can muster and _runs_. Her feet thump on the ground, the soles of her feet turning patchy. She turns the corner, and another, then another. She sees the light of a streetlamp streaming through the next. She closes her eyes to clear the tears and pushes her legs to sprint faster—

The girl finds herself running into a chest, warm, hard, and breathing. The air is pushed out from both their lungs, and it turns into mist in the cold Detroit air. They stand there, his hands grasping her shoulders as she takes a breather. 

He looks down at her, blocking the hopeful light behind him. 

“...Are you alright?”

His voice cracks her stunned state, and it all catches up to her. She pushes off from him, the momentum knocking her to the floor.

Blood drips down the cracks on her face; down the jarring opening on her forehead and from her misaligned nose. It pools around her broken jaw, where the skin gives way to white. Her tears leave behind clear streaks on her cheeks, mixing with the dirt, spit, grime and blood and creating a murky shit-brown, the same shade of her pupils. Behind those eyes are pure, unhindered _fear_. 

She does not take the hand offered to her. Instead, she scrambles back, using the one, working arm of hers to put a distance between them. The girl scratches herself on the asphalt ground, though she doesn’t care— as long as she’s far from the reach of any man. 

“Please, I can help you.” Behind the static overlay, the girl sees the man’s looming silhouette. He towers over her, though she can’t see anything else— her darkened vision masking his identity. She sees him come closer. She cowers. 

“What’s your name?” The man takes one step, then two, raising his arms up next to his head to show that he’s empty-handed; no gun, no fists, no _bat_ to swing. “I’ll make sure they won’t hurt you anymore.” 

He squats, and from this close, the girl can see the way his teeth peeks through his lips. His eyes scan her— they’re bright and green. She sits frozen as he reaches close and caresses her face. He wipes off the grime on her cheek with his thumb, careful to not let it leak inside into her chassis. “You can trust me.” He smiles, though it reaches far from his eyes.

Her jaw hangs open, detached beyond repair to shape out words. Her voice modulator, however, though drowned in blood, cracks to life. “...A— Anna. My name’s Anna.” 

The man stares down at her, assessing the dents and tears that decorate her bruised body. His hands snake up from her wrists to her arms, rubbing soothing circles into her soft skin.

“Well...” Eyes flick back up to meet hers, hands stilling at the back of her neck. “It was nice meeting you, Anna.” Quickly, his hand finds its way into a slit that’s hidden in the dip of her shoulder blades. A square pushes out from the surface. 

Before Anna can get a word out, she feels him snag his fingers inside, pulling at her core. Limbs twitch without command and she collapses into his chest one more time before her chest stops pumping. 

A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he wraps his arms around her, gently laying her off to the side. The man wipes his hand on his pants, trying to rub off the coat of blue from underneath his fingernails. Something inside his chest churns as he feels the final remnants of warmth seep out the girl in his arms, though he can’t pinpoint the feeling. 

_

“—_multiple cases of missing androids are popping up more and more every day. We’ve heard no comments from neither the DCPD nor from the self-established_ _Jericho Organisation._

_Is this possibly a political attack against the recent Uprising and Liberation of Androids? More on this tonight, on Fo—” _the droning voice of the news-reporter is abruptly cut off as North pulls the television’s power bank out.

The room is plunged in silence, tension and stress so thick Hank swears he can smell the exhaust steaming from the androids. Not that he can blame them, the lack of leads— or _anything_, really— is starting to make his brain feel like it’s been grinded and pulverized for the past few weeks. 

“Y’know,” the lieutenant, who’s cushioned next to the door, starts. “You could just— use the remote but,” he shrugs, head lolling back as he feels the beginning of a headache resurface.

“And I _could_ just kick your ass out this damn window—” North goes around the TV and swings open the window, hinges groaning under the strain. She tosses the battery out, aiming high in hopes for it to land on the deserving bastard who's responsible for all this. “—but here we are! The entire city knows all about it but they don't actually give a _single _damn."

“North_,_” Markus sighs because he knows once you let the dam leak it’ll explode. He’s as tired as all of them were, and Markus doesn’t think he has the patience to handle this today.

“Give me one damn good reason why I should believe you want to actually help us.” she slams the window shut. “Last I heard, you were off nosing the bottom of a bottle and shoving bullets at our heads!”

“North.”

“He really only aimed it at me once to prove a theory, so…” Connor mumbles quietly from the side. His comment goes ignored— better to keep his beliefs that way.

“There has been like what,” she tries to count how many faces she hasn’t seen the past month on her fingers. She runs out and debates whether she should start to include her toes, but even then it’s _still _not enough. “Twenty? Forty?—”

“Twenty-eight, actually.” Simon cuts in.

“—Of us who have been plucked from the streets. And God knows what the _fuck_ they’re doing to those poor shits right now.” 

_“North!” _

Angered, she sharply turned to glare at Markus, a challenge in her eyes daring him to continue. Her voice comes out soft, filled to the brim with something acute. The change almost gives everyone whiplash. “_I haven’t seen Anna since that ULA party, Markus. _So you can cut the crap because we all know _shit_ about what’s happening!”

The leader squints his eyes, pressure growing at his temples. He lifts a hand from the table he’s leaning on to massage the sides of his forehead, metal creaking with the force of his fingers. Simon worriedly looks at the back of his head from the desk chair he sits in. 

Markus waits, giving time for everyone to pause for at least one _damn_ second. 

He knows that they’re stuck in a corner, and he doesn't need it to be shouted at him every time they turn on the news. “Are you done now?”

Hank’s head spins on his shoulders every few minutes, and slowly he feels the muscles in his neck start to grow weary. The lieutenant’s got enough common sense left in him to know not to barge in with questions, but he can’t stand being so out of the loop; reading words on a report is worlds different from experiencing it after all. 

All he knows is that Fowler’s dumped a case onto his hands a _wee-bit _too late, containing more photos of the missing individuals than actual leads. 

Of course, they’d let a couple dozen go missing before deciding to care. Hank wants to be angry, to be irritated with the blatant racism— speciesism?— but he knows that last year he wouldn’t have even batted an eyelash either. His lips press into a thin line, and he looks at Connor leaning on his armrest. 

Some things can change, however. 

Without much more shouting, Connor slowly slips in again. “...Perhaps it’s best if we secure the safety of everyone here before we go looking for anything.” Hank can tell the kid’s nervous by the way he re-adjusts his tie. “We don’t want that number to go past thirty.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from everyone. North outwardly grunts at how obvious the notion is. 

“I could do that,” The lieutenant tracks his eyes on Josh, someone he always forgets about as he sticks to the side of the room. “I’ll try sending out a firewall of some sort— maybe put everyone onto the system to keep us updated,” Josh says in a gentle tone.

Connor re-adjusts his tie before getting up from beside Hank. “I’ll help in whatever way I can,”

“And we’ll tell them about it,” Markus says, his LED cycling a yellow hue before he circles to the back of the desk. He claps Simon’s shoulders before the group begins to stir into motion. “To make sure no one panics and wreaks havoc.” 

Hank swears he sees the waver in Markus’ bravado, but he can’t tell with all the bodies crossing his vision. The duo dusts themselves off as everyone finally seems to loosen up, and Hank gives the room a final sweep before following Connor out. 

Someplace, a couple hundred feet away from the central office, a man has a battery set slammed into his head. 

-

The detective can’t help but notice how the place is much more livelier than the real homes he visited during his few months working. The place is bright, not overwhelmingly so, but just enough that it seems to make Connor’s eyes sparkle with a promise of a hopeful future. 

He trots down beside Hank, who seems to just take it all in. The open lounge opens up to a small garden, where kids frolic and people bathe in the sun, letting the light waft in to warm those who sit and sip on drinks. There’s a soft collection of talk that bounces up to the ceiling, five stories high. In the background, silent screens cover the walls that show the news of the outside— unobtrusive and ignored because most androids couldn’t care less about what goes on on the other side. 

Connor can see the appeal of removing humans from the equation. These people don't owe anything to them, not after being battered and beaten to the ground like plastic dolls. He’s seen what they’ve done to these people— witnessed it first hand as man took it upon themselves to paint their hands blue with blood. Connor can’t let some imbecile, too caught up in outdated thinking, to take someone away from this quiet haven— he doesn’t acknowledge the thought that reminds him that he was once the same. 

The detective clenches his jaw, and grimaces at the times he’d been the one pulling the trigger at harmless androids; to think that Connor once saw them as broken plastic capable of nothing more than obeying. He speeds up his gait— wanting to get back to his desk to do _anything _in his power to keep the deaths low. 

“Kid, slow down." A hand clamps over Connor’s shoulder. When he looks back he sees the wrinkle that digs deep between Hank’s brows. He doesn’t like how it looks on him. “We both know we aren’t getting any leads anytime soon so— just take a damn breather.”

That’s illogical, and they both know it. But Connor’s found to realize that living _is_ illogical, and the fact that he’s still breathing when he would’ve been in the bottom of a body dump is gratifying. They both know that adding a couple more hours to the dozens of overtime would help _logically_, but where’s the point in running in sludge— when you’d just end up right where you started? 

The android looks back at him, sees the wrinkle that deepens further. Connor wants to press his thumb against it, to smooth it out. He doesn’t need Hank getting worked up because of him— he’s _fine_, goddamnit. He sighs when Hank doesn’t show any sign of loosening his hold; he looks around the room, to _really _look and appreciate it instead of cataloging it in words and numbers. 

He breathes in, and he breathes out, and his shoulders drop from their tense state. Hank’s hand easily slides off after that. “Are you going to grab a drink?” 

He grunts an affirmative before Connor watches him walk towards the bar that takes up half a wall. Connor already knew that he would, so he orders from the small list that caters to the occasional human: a tall drink of celery and carrot smoothie. 

Connor smirks cause he knows he’ll _love _that. 

He turns away from where Hank sits on a stool, and goes to roam around the place. But he doesn’t know where _to_, exactly. His smile quickly slips off. 

He looks around and sees the many androids that lounge on the countless seats. Connor, the former _deviant hunter_, might be thinking of phantom feelings that cause him bias, but he swears he catches more than a couple pairs of eyes that regard him wearily. 

An info-box slides itself into his vision. The detective can’t exactly help but notice when someone stares at his direction— he _was_ madeto notice every tiny detail and Connor recoils at every pinpoint sting of judgment thrown at him. 

He re-adjusts his tie just as another ping comes in.

He debates going back towards the bar, where Hank’s seated near the corner of the room and away from the lingering stares; Hank could keep him calm, that he knows with certainty. He looks back over his shoulder and catches his partner sitting back while chatting with the bartender. 

And if Hank can do it, then so should Connor. The gazes cause an itchiness that sprouts from the inside of his skin, but he pushes them all back to a low priority. He doesn’t need to be reminded any more about what he already knows. 

He re-adjusts his tie before stepping out towards the grass. 

Connor keeps his steps steady, unwavering and sure despite the snippets of comments he hears; they know he can hear them, but still, they continue. He keeps his steps even, his head held straight— but not too high that it comes off as arrogance. 

Though, while being able to catch every word that comes off everyone’s lips, he fails to notice his steps leading him towards someone. 

There’s a soft, dull thud that hits against his legs, a tiny shout muffled by his pant leg. Connor reaches down and holds the girl’s shoulders at an arm’s length to give them both some distance. 

It’s Alice, he realizes. She looks different, not in her appearance— no, she’s still the same YK500 with the same face and hair. But this Alice holds a light behind her eyes, something new brewing with curiosity and the mischief of a kid. 

“Alice.” his stiff shoulders loosen as he looks down at her. “Hi.” a tiny, gentle smile pulls at Connor’s lips. It still doesn’t sit quite right on his face, but he’ll have enough time to practice.

It doesn’t bother the girl, however, and she returns his with a smile that crinkles up her eyes. She’s the first one that doesn’t scoff or follow his every move with suspicion. It could very well just be her naivety, but Alice trusts him, and he can’t quite tell himself that he’s earned it. 

Connor’s throat starts to feel constricted by his collar, so he re-adjusts his tie. 

He looks up to see Kara and Luther, who he presumes took on the role of being her parents, and together with Alice, he walks towards them with his hand resting against the blades of her shoulders. 

Kara’s shoulders tense, if only by half an inch when she sees where his hands are placed. Connor looks down and sees that his fingers could easily slide open the panel on Alice’s back through the thin material. He lets go before Alice runs to the pair. 

“Kara. Luther.” he greets them with a curt nod, not knowing if they’re comfortable with him around.

There’s a delicate silence that stands between them, a wall that Connor can’t quite make himself cross. He’s already apologized, and feels another trying to push its way out of his lips— but would they really want to be reminded about the way Connor would’ve easily clawed them away from the life they had now? “I…” he clamps his mouth shut before the next words come out, but it doesn’t stop Kara from filling in the blanks.

Connor focuses on the way the sunlight shifts in through into the lounge instead of making eye contact. 

“Connor, it’s nice to see that you’re doing fine.” pleasantries fall onto deaf ears, they both know it’s just to fill in the quiet. Another silence hangs in the air and clings onto Connor’s skin, sticky and slick. The guilt layers on the older ones, and he just wishes that the rain could wash it all away. 

“Actually… I wanted to make sure if you guys were aware.” his finger scrapes against the material of his tie, nudging it this way and that. “You know, about the...” 

“Alice, why don’t you go play with your friends again? I’ll join you outside soon.” Kara softly wraps an arm around her kid’s shoulders, planting a kiss near her temple. There’s a tender smile when she watches Alice skip out towards the cluster of children playing out in the sun.

They wait until she’s out of earshot. 

“You’re talking about them going missing?” Connor nods, he doesn’t miss the way Luther purses his lips at the corner of his eye. 

“We don’t know much about it, we’ve just been staying inside here.” Her hand gestures around. “Whatever it takes to keep Alice safe.” Her hand lands on top Luther’s, who still keeps silent and looks at their intertwined hands instead of Connor. 

He nods but turns his attention towards Luther. He’s anxious, that much is obvious. 

Connor scans his stress levels— it sits in the mid-thirties_. _It hasn’t reached the alarming dozens, but it isn’t normal for the kind of conversation they’re having. 

“Luther?” the number ticks up by three. “I hope my presence isn’t causing you discomfort.” Connor feels his shoulders sag involuntarily. It should’ve been expected, he thinks, as he makes eye contact with Luther.

“No, no, you’re fine.” 

Connor flicks his eyes towards Kara, and back to Luther— a silent message between the two of them. Kara reaches around to wrap her arms around him, for a few moments their faces morph as they keep their words private in their heads. Connor can’t try to hide his smirk when Kara’s arm barely reaches the opposite shoulder. 

The level drops down to the low twenties. Connor gives it second to drop a couple more before even thinking about asking him. Luther might know something— it’s just a hunch.

He takes a seat in front of them, keeping a polite distance away from the pair. 

“You’ve heard about it too right?”

A simple nod and pursed lips. “Of course I have,”

“...I know that it’s worrying, especially since tensions are still high— but Markus and the team are doing everything they can to make sure that everyone stays safe_. _No one else will be at risk, if that’s why you’re worried.” _That's a lie._

Luther turns his eyes to look at him. His mouth opens but no words come out. Connor lowers his voice, leaning in and resting near to whisper.

“I’ll make it my mission to keep your family safe,” Connor's eyes turn soft. He wonders briefly if they could ever trust him with the task. “I owe you that much, so I’ll need _anything_ you can give me. ” 

Kara takes one more look between the two of them before going to interrupt. But Luther beats her to it. 

“I’m just scared that it’s…” he looks at Kara, for courage or an escape, Connor doesn’t know. “What if it’s him again?” They both seem to know, but Connor’s left out of the circle. 

“Him who?”

“...Zlatko,” A hardened look passes his face as he clenches his jaw and offers his arm to Connor. He takes it without hesitation, giddiness crackling beneath his skin when there's finally something to look into. 

_It's a loneliness that creeps up the near-rotting walls of the old mansion. The moss, spiderwebs and light cracks are hardly noticed as one walks through its quiet halls, wallpaper peeling to expose cold wood. _

_He walks and wanders through the conjoined rooms, footsteps falling muffled on the carpet coated with dust. He's not had a main purpose for as long as his memories can go back, and he is misused for an assistant._

_There's a tiny, empty hole somewhere in him. It's dulled the years he's been walking the same routes into one monotone sequence._

_Every once in awhile, there will be a knock on the door, and its echoes will bounce through the quiet air. That night, the man will ask— _instruct_ him to haul some piece up the stairs and into his office._

_The pieces are all in equal state: mangled, bloodied and wires twisted like it had been pulled apart masochistically. He noticed the certain signatures left on the limbs, like an artist would on their masterpiece. Zlatko knew what he was doing, but he hardly cared enough to be careful. _

_Luther does not want to know what he does in the basement if the garbled screams that ricochets in the halls is anything to go by. It sounds like hell down there, like a fiery pit that scorns those who are tricked by the man._

_It would only be suitable if the man himself receives the same faith._

The connection's cut off when Connor sees the flames lick at their feet, as they all try to run away from the mansion. The LED's on both their heads cycle a solid red.

“I doubt, that this would be of much help. He might still be under the rubble but… maybe he’s still out there.” Luther lets his hand fall. "I hadn't stayed long enough to see."

If anything, it’s the biggest— and _only—_ lead that Hank and Connor’s got right now. He’ll have to tell his partner later. The detective pushes on his knees and rises from his seat. 

“Here, have my contacts.” the detective offers his hand to interface. “Let me know first thing if anything happens, I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” 

Kara, with some hesitance, clasps her hand around his wrist, eyes closing as she receives what she needs. There’s a snippet where she sees the place through Connor’s eyes, a comment slips through Connor’s grasps before he quickly peels his hand away. 

His eyes flutter before nodding and plastering a commercial smile towards the two. He re-adjusts his tie and turns to leave. 

“Connor.” She catches onto his wrist before he fully turns their back at them. Connor looks back over his shoulder, his LED flickering a quick gold. “...Thank you.” 

And perhaps they can both say that it’s genuine. 

His smile turns real, a minute tug on his lips_,_ and Connor continues back to Hank. 

_

_“You pay them their check yet?” the shorter man says, accessing the damage in front of him._

_“Yes.” A pause. “Though I reduced the total due to the amount of unnecessary damage they’ve inflicted. She’s lost quite a lot.”_

“It.”

_They both stared down at the android that lays on the table, a silence passing. “...They weren’t happy.”_

_The man hums, seemingly in thought. “I can wonder." The corner of his lip ticks up. "That’s just how life is, unfortunately.” _


	2. No Man's Land (Kidding, it's just Moody Gavin™)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reed stays stuck in his old ways, where solitude and festering anger are his oldest friends.  
Connor and Hank follow through a lead that takes them back to a ruined mansion that smells of burnt wood and plastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh hi  
join this dbh discord if ya'll wanna, it's honestly one of the best ones out there:  
https://discord.gg/EBb9D3N
> 
> anyways, enjoy this chapter !!

The ice slides inside the glass that Gavin swirls between his fingers, forehead hot and slick with sweat pressed against the back of his hand. He keeps his shoulders curled into himself, flimsy jacket following the flow and hiding the badge clipped by his belt. 

A crude— is what they call him.

The night grows darker, and the lights on the inside turn up to almost blindingly bright and shifts through the color spectrum. The quiet clink from his drink sounds at every third second; a simple metronome that keeps his attention solely in his little bubble at the edge of the bar.

Everything else is fuzzy to his senses. The thump of the bass grumbles on the surfaces, drunken wails high in the air get drowned out, an ocean of bodies sticking together in the open space with hands reaching for the roof. 

His eyes scan around the room, a habit he’d picked up from years of gruesome training that burned into his muscle memory. Everyone seemed to be cut off from him, as he was to them, and anyone who dared to break that division was pushed away by his brooding persona. A simple glare from beneath his lashes could make even the narcissistic scurry.

The detective’s eyes drift towards the bartender. Its brown hair neatly trimmed close to its head, smile charming enough to lure dazed customers, and uniform clinging onto its petite body. 

An android, model AV500— made to service the public. 

He watches the bartender lean across the countertop, a drunk whispering sweet nothings into its ear. Its face beams with a full-grown smile and a laugh bursts from its lips, chest-rattling with the motion. A moment passes, and it returns to wiping down the station as the last of its high dies out. The light at its temple rolls a cool blue. It irked the detective; it was such a blatant coy, a programmed reaction to satisfy the naive fools. 

Gavin wasn't falling for it.

Androids, they were something that he could not make sense of despite everything that happened last year. Androids, made by incompetent humans, were designed to be superior in every way possible, _of course _ they could play God if they wanted to. The detective knew, oh he knew that they could’ve held the strings on humanity if they ever sought it. 

Conspire, band together, corner people back into a wall and leave them wondering where to go. It took them less than a week to do it. Humans never stood a chance. 

Maybe his hatred had festered more so in the past few weeks. If it weren’t for androids being _sentient_ beings, he could’ve gotten closer to closing this goddamned case. He huffs out a breath and clenches his fist on the table. They always got in the way of everything; from his god-damned job to his fucked-up cases.

It took two months of uncomfortable and itchy disguises and living in putrid conditions, just to get into the impenetrable ring. The detective would never know the appeal of turning his life into a pathetic slump, growing dependent on crushed crystals just to get your rockets off. He’d spent, sniffed, and consumed red fumes that clung in his throat like thick cobwebs that wouldn’t dissolve. He had to adapt to the addicts that would tumble out from whatever trash they would bundle themselves in, not unlike sewer rats in the subways, and claw with desperation to get even a whiff of red ice into their lungs. The detective felt dirty just by watching them climb on top of each other—heck, clamber even, to get close enough. All of it was surreal and, when he thought about it, felt like an intimate gang-bang. 

It took two months of climbing up the ranks. He’d been so close— he almost had the ring wrapped around his finger. 

Until he hadn’t. 

So far up the ladder, Gavin had climbed and endured the weight of his limbs that dragged down like lead; only to be flicked off the top and drop back to square one. All the work he’d gathered— gone. 

He knew the who, where, what and when of how things work— he just didn’t have the chance to look up and see who was the mastermind behind it all. 

But finally, he was summoned one evening. He had high hopes for finally pinpointing who controlled all this and closing possibly the _biggest_ underground ring in Detroit history— Anderson’s be damned. He had all the strings, he just needed to tie it all off and send the fucker tumbling.

_His underarms were soaked damp with sweat and odor, and the hairs and goosebumps rose from his skin with every step he took towards the double doors. Against the cheap steel, he could see the distorted reflection of himself; hair and skin clumpy, and eyebags reaching new lows that sagged heavily against his cheekbones. He fit the look of an abuser, and Gavin despised himself just that little bit more for it. _

_His hand reaches, sticky and slick with anxiety, gripping for the bar handle. He felt the cool of it leave at the presence of his warmth before he pushes._

_His pupils shrink when the light bounces into his eyes. There's a couple seconds of pause where his eyes adjust to the brightness._

_The inside showed the price of wealth and style that only someone in the business could get. Black, grey, and brown— every surface didn’t house a single spec of dirt that seemed to pollute the air outside these walls. Dull sunlight filters in through the full-wall windows on the other side of the detective. _

_Leaning back on a table with his arms crossed over his chest, is a silhouette that's been still since he’d walked in. He could've almost missed him if it weren't for the way his eyes tracked his every move._

Bingo. 

_The doors shut back tight behind him, and the puff of wind pushes the detective towards the center of the room— like the main attraction. A few seconds ticks by, not a finger nor an eye twitching from neither of them. Both were at a stalemate, though the detective couldn’t see the other half of the game. _

_Gavin mimics the guy’s posture, shoulders unstrung as he crosses his arms. He waits. _

_“I’ve heard much about you,” his voice is low, gravely enough to make the detective think he'd smoke most of the ring's products. “And I can’t lie when I say I’m impressed. Not many around here are interested in anything other than the ice.”_

_The man pushes off his desk, taking calculated steps that make his dress shoes click. He circles around the detective, eyeing him up from every angle. Gavin suppresses the urge to shiver from the trepidation that trickles down his spine when his back is left vulnerable._

_He stops in front of the detective, eyes cold as he peers down at him._

_“I wonder why that is,” _

_“It gives me things that the law can’t. Isn’t that why everyone gets into this shit?” Gavin says, and it’s the truth— it’s easy to fall on the wrong side when it promises such simple success. _

_“Such potential." he hums. "Though it's sad to know that the only competent people around here are… impostures."_

_Sweat starts to gather at his temple. H_e _hasn't gotten anything out the man, but the whole ordeal is already going south. The detective ignores the panic building at the back of his mind, opting for a scowl instead._

_"The fuck're you on about?"_

_The tip of his thumb lightly brush against Gavin's row of teeth, dry skin pulling at his bottom lip. He swipes, eyes intently staring at the liquid that starts to pool. Gavin reels and spits the finger out his mouth._

_It comes out shiny, saliva catching light from the sun. It's slowly brought down to the man's own lips_— _their eyes meet with a spark and never break contact_. S_oft pink opens to let a quick tongue flick at the thumb._

_"Gavin Rowe Reed." He says, tone devoid of any warmth as he rattles off a script that seems to come from his head. "Employed at DCPD since 2025. Case Closure rate of 82%, and _rising._ Currently the leading detective in on-going Red Ice Epidemic investigation, and as of April, has been undercover and disguised under the name of…" He pauses, eyes seeming to focus back onto Gavin. _

_"Must I continue? We both already know how it goes anyways," A gentle tug pulls at his lips._

_And then it dawns on Gavin. He's seen it happen more times than he can count when Connor's on the same site— licking shit like it ain't covered in crusty, old blood. _

_All this time, he spent choking down ice and living in the slumps _just_ to take down a malfunctioning drone? _

It was unfair, this game of chess that he played for months against someone who knew his moves three steps ahead. Every attack, no matter how calculated or silent, would be shunned before it even started, because _androids were just better_. And that’s the thing, they would always beat Gavin— even if they didn’t deserve it. 

A near growls threatens to escape his throat. There's a faint, burning sensation that lights up his skin when he thinks about how close he had had it. Utterly stupid he had been, to let it out of his grasp that quickly. Gavin feels restless, from both his lack of progress and drug withdrawal, and he itches from underneath his skin. 

The blasting music, shouts, and blinding lights break through his tiny bubble, and Gavin clenches his jaw that grinds at his molars. He downs what little of his drink he has left; including the ice cubes, and he bites through the cold. 

A fifty and change are left beside the cup and residue on the table. 

His wallet feels marginally lighter by the end of the night. Movements jerky and vision extra blurry at the edges, he scrapes his wooden stool against the polished floor to head towards the door. Gavin doesn’t miss the chance to shoulder the android in his way, mind bubbly when he hears liquid sloshing around behind him. He swats the shouts off his shoulders.

He likes the idea of being able to blame it on the alcohol. Or at least that’s what he tells himself when he steps out into the spitting weather.

_

His shoes sink into the muddy soil, black dress shoes turning brown as he trudged down deeper into the real estate.

The rain falls onto the burnt wood of the house, turning it into a soggy and weak structure with a thick layer of soot. Tiny droplets of rain trickle down his porcelain face, and he has to blink out the water that tries to make its way into his eyes.

“From what I saw, his deathbed was right—" Connor pauses in the middle of the overgrown backyard, and looks down at the ground— almost like he expected a body to pop up from the ground. "...here." 

Connor looks up, at the half caved-in house behind him and at the forest edge of the land.

There is no body. 

"Well, sure ain't look like it bud." Hank's got his arms crossed and shoulders tucked right under his ears. He eyes the spot that Connor proclaims to be a grave but finds no decayed flesh nor bones to leer on.

"You sure this is the right place?"

"Of course it is, Hank. Would I ever bring you out in the middle of nowhere for no reason?" 

The lieutenant purses his lips at Connor, not being able to admit this tiny defeat, and turns peering around at the rest of the yard. He finds a patch of disturbed mud several feet away, by some unkempt hedges. The dirt's been upheaved and, if Hank can guess, hasn't been tampered with other than a tiny case of weathering. Something was dragged here.

"Seemed like someone escaped," Hank mutters out. He looks at the sharp cuts of the uneven earth, it was irregular— inorganic. The lieutenant has a gouging suspicion that it could've been one of the 'droids he had seen from the kid's report. The pictures had been grainy at best, though he can't doubt that they were androids; if the dissipating blue in their nooks and crannies was to be checked.

Connor's steps squish wetly in the mud as he comes over, eyes raking across the ragged pattern on the ground. 

"Was it one of 'em? The androids?" he doesn't reply to Hank— just merely hums in thought as his vision trails the lines and focuses in on the side of the mansion walls, barely supporting themselves up.

It doesn't take much time to follow the track on the molded soil and to find the thing that left it behind. It slumps against the soaked wood of the house, eyes and facials blank as it gapes out into the void of the darkening sky. 

It's the only guy in sight, and it's their best bet. Connor just hopes that the lenses in its eyes are still recording, after all this time. There’s a tiny prick of doubt as he trails his eyes along the varying depth of glowing blue cracks on its chassis. 

"You think ya' could… I don't know," What do you say when you're referring to restarting a sentient computer? Start it up? Reboot it? _Put it in rice and hope?_ Hank ain't got the answer to that. "wake the guy up? Like how you did at Eden?"

"Wish it was as simple as that." Connor huffs as he looks down at the android. He scans it, and there’s nothing much to learn other than the thing’s dead. There is no heartbeat, a thinking brain nor blood thrumming through its wires; it was a hollow shell— nothing more, nothing less. Connor supposes the queasy feeling churning in his belly isn’t that alarming when he stares at the empty, blue eyes of the android. "...It's been a few couple months since Luther's left here."

Connor leans in to peer closer at the still android. Skin peeling back as his finger goes to probe at its LED. He has to access to those recordings. They need to know if Zlatko is still out there— he can’t take him in for the experiments prior to The Revolution, as much as he hates it, but the chances of him being the suspect are far too great right now. 

The temple of the inactive android peels back to reveal the white expanse underneath. A bolt of electricity sparks from an exposed wire behind. But it wasn't supposed to react to his touch like that. It was inactive, _dead_, so why was the skin retracting—? 

An arm shoots up from the crumbled mass of plastic and grasps at Connor's forearm.

"Connor! Kid—" Hank’s booming voice startles the awakened android. It doubles the fear that seems to shine behind its blank eyes.

Its strength is far superior than what its appearance would suggest; stronger for an android with no heartbeat, at least. It wrestles for leverage as it heaves itself from its slouched position on the wall. 

Its voice gurgles down in its throat, a begging plea for protection from a man who might no longer be living. The blunt nails of enamel continues to scrape at Connor's arms as the android tries to bring him down with it.

The white that peeks through the points of contact spark with a connection, acute feelings of emotions flood through. A quick moment passes and Connor feels a string of memory slip through his fingers, too slippery to hold onto and reel back in. 

A reply of Luther’s memories rolls. They both take pause as the images of Luther’s blind compliancy flashes through their minds. _It’s possibly one of the worst things that could’ve been sent to the android_, Connor thinks. He grimaces as he makes a mental note to check out his data transfers later— to find a more efficient way to fix them. Couldn't they have made better prototypes? He shouldn't be this flawed, goddamnit.

"You were with him." its eyes continue to stare up towards Connor, _through _Connor. "His perfect lil’ helper, aren’t you?"

"...Why haven't you done anything?" the abrupt switch in the android’s tone gives Connor whiplash, and he doesn't know how to reply to something like that. No one knows what circumstances are needed for one to deviate, let alone how it happens.

Connor has to slowly ease his arm from the prying fingers of the android— careful as to not frighten the thing more. Once he's free, he takes two small steps away and raises his palms forward. He’s halfway to crouching on the ground, making his height less intimidating. 

"This is all just a misunderstanding." Soothing as his voice may be, the android shows no sign of listening. "My name's Connor. We’re here to help you, alright? There's no need for—"

"Shut it, you. There must be a reason why you enjoyed it. _Oh yes,_ very much so," 

The negotiator snaps his lips closed, gaze narrowed as he notes down the deranged tics in the thing's movements. Connor tries again with the connection, knowing now that the only way to get through to it is internally. He reaches forward again, aiming for the clear area of its shoulder instead of the intimate spot of the temple.

"I can't let you continue what he left behind." it's the only warning he gets before he's pulled down fully onto his knees. His gray slacks turn brown with damp mud, he can’t move his arms as the thing holds a bruising grip on his forearms.

"What the hell are you doing, Connor? Get away from him!" Hank’s hand reaches for the gun holstered by his waist, his shoulders and hairs raised as he starts to lunge between the two androids.

“No!” Connor bends his arm and pushes the lieutenant a couple feet back with the bend of his elbow. “Stay back, Hank. Or he’ll mistake you for Zlatko.” 

It lunges forward at the name, aiming to claw at his vitals; his eyes, ears— anything that’ll stun Connor enough to take pause. The detective sees it coming, sees the projection of its hand going for his eyes. He falls backwards, out of the way, and registers the cold mud smushing under the weight of his back. 

The android’s grasp stay locked on Connor’s wrists, and the momentum of Connor’s fall drags him down to the ground with him. Their faces are inches apart, limps pressed flat against each other, and Connor is left gaping at the sharpened teeth of the android as it snarls down at him. 

Connor digs his elbow into the earth and pushes off to jostle it off. 

He lands on top, and he balances on his knees to give himself some space. Just right then, the android lets go of one of Connor’s wrists. With a free hand, 

The buttons of his shirt fall out their threads with the slide of its hand, popping out and bouncing near Connor’s eyelash. The android’s movements are quick as his fingers quickly find the midpoint of his torso, nails scratching around the slit that encircles his regulator. 

It digs his fingers around the circle. The cylinder resists at first, but with a click and a twist, the regulator slip out from its place. Blood gushes from the hole as the tubes are disturbed.

“_Fuck it_,” he hears Hank mutter from the sidelines before he cocks his gun and aims at the dogpile of androids. The bullet goes straight down its back, where the wires fall exposed outside. 

One, two, three bullets ring out. 

Connor can’t hear the clear explosions as the static builds in his ears. Its body topples on top of Connor’s chest, and his skin registers a cool liquid dripping down his sides. He looks down his nose at the sight of his chest, at the frozen face peering up to his with dead-set eyes. The coat of blue blood reflects the light of the heavy moon. 

The detective feels the nerves prickling at his skin the longer the body settles itself on him. He shoves the thing to the side, leaning back on his elbows as the numbers in front of him tick down into seconds. 

“Jesus, Connor. What the hell happened there?” Hank sinks down to his knees next to Connor, hands immediately going for the cylinder that’s out of place. His meaty thumb presses on the middle, and he screws the thing back in gently— careful not to chip or scratch more of Connor’s skin. The detective shivers at the reset of his heart.

Hank can’t tell who’s blood that is on his chest. For a moment his hair stands as he thinks that his shots must’ve gone clean through the both of them. Could it be? From the angle he’d been standing at? 

He smooths his hand over the stretch of his torso, palm gliding over the unblemished surface. It remains smooth.

“I thought it was dead. It didn’t show any signs of functionality.” Connor looks back at the corner of his eye, back at the corpse. “...It was a mistake,” 

“Hell— Gimme a minute. I left some of your drinks back in the car, I think.” Hank gets up from his knees with some difficulty. He takes one look down and Connor and feels bad for the lack of layers the boy’s wearing. He slips his arms out of his light coat and tosses it down. “Cover yourself up while I go get ‘em.”

Connor waits for a few moments, seeking the remnants of warmth from the borrowed jacket. 

Hank quickly makes his way back, arms close around himself to guard off the slight chill of the night. “Here—” he throws the packets down at his chest. “Drink up. Don’t let me see you waste a drop.” 

They sit there for a few minutes. Connor drinks three packs before he’s satisfied with the numbers of his blood levels. He wipes away any excess that miss his lips.

“C’mon. It’s freezing out here.” The lieutenant extends his hand out to Connor and heaves him up from the muddy ground.

"You know I'm perfectly capable of—" Hank squints his eyes at him before he's even able to complete the sentence. "...Thanks."

Hank looks back at the mess of aluminum packaging. There's too many drinks to take count of, more so in the dim light of the moon. It wouldn't be much of a waste if a couple get left behind. 

He shrugs before wrapping an arm around Connor's waist, supporting him back towards the car. The kid doesn't need the help— but Hank can indulge from time to time, knowing at the same time that Connor would want it.

"You're gonna ruin my seats, ya’ know."

**Author's Note:**

> okay, i had to reupload this because the amount of typos in here was embarrassing lmao


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